Page 51 of Paper Horses

He grabbed my face, his eyes scouring it. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t entirely sure I was.

“Is anything broken or hurt?”

This time, a headshake because my brain had yet to connect to my mouth. Not until he took the hem of my shirt and pulled it up.

“What are you doing?” I asked between convulsing shakes.

“You’re drenched and mud-caked.” He pulled a small branch from my hair to support his claim. “And I need to get you cleaned up before we can check for any injuries.”

“I’m fine,” I said, pushing the shirt down.

“You need to wash up, Olivia.” Holding my arm up, he brushed the mud away, and I winced, yanking it back. “You’re injured, and I need you clean to see where those wounds are so I can treat them.”

“I can wash up myself.” I went to remove my boot, but my legs were still too weak, and I tumbled. Hands caught me, and a frown greeted me when I looked up.

“Let me help.”

Huffing, I relented, letting him pull the boots off while I rested on his broad shoulders, trying not to picture what they looked like below his rain jacket and the shirt underneath it.

When he had my shoes and socks off, he unbuttoned my jeans. I caught his hand, my eyes going wide, heat scorching my lower body.

“I’m not doing anything,” he grumbled. “If you don’t want my help, I’ll leave, but you are getting in that shower.”

I released his hand, knowing I was too unsteady to contemplate even stepping into the shower. The chattering had increased, and a series of jerks had set upon me.

“Your body is in shock. The warm water will help.” He pulled my jeans down, gently raising each foot as he removed them from me. Brown eyes lifted to meet mine, and warmth slid past the chills, calming them. His eyes grazed over me, and he hissed when they passed my lace thong. He stood and took my shirt with him, raising it over my arms. It made a suction sound when it separated from my skin and a loud thud when it hit the floor.

My breaths were shallow, barely making it to my lungs as his eyes locked with mine. Hungry, yet tinged with worry.

“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice distinctly hoarse.

“I don’t know,” I murmured, afraid to break contact with him.

His hands were under my knees and on my back, scooping me to him before I could even attempt to walk.

Gently placing me in the shower, he made sure I was steady before his hands left my body.

“Are you okay to wash up?” he asked, keeping his gaze locked with mine.

“I think so.”

He nodded. “I’ll get you a towel and something to change into. Yell if you need me.”

“Okay.”

He closed the shower curtain, and I heard him gather up the clothes, his footsteps taking him from the bathroom. I stepped further under the water, letting it soak into my bones, and closed my eyes. Shock. That’s what this was. An instinctive reaction that would pass. I looked at the situation with a clinical view, leaving my emotions out of it for fear I would break down. I had gone into that storm and put myself in that situation. Had not used my head or listened to Hudson’s warning. Stubbornly insisted on not accepting his help.

Sighing, I turned to let the water wash the mud from my hair and reached back to unhook my bra. I threw it around the shower curtain, where it landed with a plop. I did the same with my underwear. Mud continued to pour from me, and I wondered if I would ever be free of it or if I would find it in places for the rest of my life.

I heard Hudson’s steps again before he hastily fled the room. When I peeked around the curtain, my things were gone. Only the muddy spot where they’d been remained. He returned a few minutes later, leaving me a towel and a robe and telling me he’d be downstairs.

I took my time, berating myself for my stupidity and hearing my father’s voice in the words. When I felt strong enough to leave the shower, I stopped the water, took the fluffy towel Hudson had left me, and dried myself before I wrapped the oversized blue robe around me. It smelled like Hudson, and I pulled it to my nose, inhaling his scent.

Padding down the stairs, steadier on my feet, I asked, “Do you often walk around in just a robe?”

An odd question, but I didn’t want to talk about what had happened or how he had taken care of me. My fall had wounded my ego and left my confidence off-kilter.